On A Wing And A Prayer: In the Arms of a Friend
by Vi Co
Summary: Second in the series. It follows the same pattern as the first but takes place on June 2, 1940.
1. over Dunkirk, France

_June 2, 1940 – over Dunkirk, France _

The fighter twisted and turned, trying to prevent the plane behind it from getting a clear shot. It was obvious that the pilot hoped to reach the protection of the sparse cloud cover. However, the pursuing pilot had no intention of letting that happen.

But he couldn't afford to waste ammunition, so he trailed patiently behind the first fighter, waiting until he could line up the shot. When he had the first plane clearly within his sights, the pursuer let loose with a quick burst of gunfire.

The tracers streaked across the blue sky, lighting it up with thin streaks of light. The streaks of light showed the pilot that the ammunition had not been wasted; the bullets raked the tail end of the first fighter, blowing holes in the thin metal skin of the plane. But both pursuer and pursued knew that planes could still fly with bullet holes in them.

After a moment, fluid started trailing behind the plane. The rounds of gunfire had obviously pierced at least one of the hydraulic lines. With the lines damaged, the first pilot was finding his plane far less responsive; his evasive maneuvers were slowing. The second pilot closed the distance between the two planes, moving in for the kill.

The second pilot fired another short burst of ammunition and a brilliant flash of orange lit the sky as the fluid trailing the first plane ignited. The oil lines must have also been damaged by the first hail of bullets. The nose of the first plane dropped and the flaming making fell into a steep dive. Smoke hid the cockpit from view and it was impossible to tell if the pilot would be able to pull the plane out of the dive for an emergency landing.

Still unconvinced of the plane's doom, the second pilot followed the dive, firing another burst from his guns. The first plane exploded as the flames reached the gas tank, a brilliant fireball against the sky. There would be no parachute emerging from a fireball like that.

There was no sense watching as the debris plummeted down to the beaches, so the second pilot pulled the nose of his plane up, climbing for the distant cloud bank that the first fighter had been desperately heading toward. "Aigle Un á Aigle Trois," a voice came through over the radio. "Do you copy?"

LeBeau reached out to flick his radio on. "Aigle Un, c'est Aigle Trois."

"You okay, LeBeau?" the flight leader asked.

"Oui, mon ami," LeBeau answered, flying through the other side of the clouds and wheeling around to make another pass over the beaches, searching for a new target.

"Did you get him?"

LeBeau looked down to the beaches where lines of men stretched out into the oceans. They were waiting to be delivered. "There is now one less Messerschmidt in the air," LeBeau responded. "That one was for France," he added after a moment.

"Roger that."

There were a few moments of silence before another voice broke in over the radio. This voice was panicked. "There's one on my tail! I can't loose him! I need some backup."

LeBeau turned tightly, searching the sky for his friend's plane. He spotted it and the German fighter hard on its tail. "I see you, Gauthier. I'm on my way."

"Hurry!"

LeBeau flew toward the pair of fighters, taking the extra time to circle around so he could drop in on the pair from out of the sun. Gauthier was performing evasive maneuvers as he tried to angle toward the nearest clouds. When LeBeau was in the best position he could get into in such a short period of time, he dropped in a steep dive toward the pair.

Gauthier saw LeBeau's fighter begin its decent out of the sun and started a sharp turn toward it, hoping that the German fighter would come within range of LeBeau's guns before it got him. The German fighter saw LeBeau's fighter and started moved to close the gap between his plane and Gauthier's; he wanted to make the kill before LeBeau got within gun range. But the pair had almost come within reach of LeBeau's guns.

LeBeau started to angle his fighter to get a good shot, hoping that he could finish off the German before the German finished off Gauthier. But despite his evasive maneuvers, Gauthier still remained within the sights of the German guns, a thin line of fluid trailing from his plane.

Gauthier knew that he was still within the German's sights. "LeBeau, help!" he cried, desperately as gunfire streaked toward his fighter from the German guns.

Flames began to fill the air around the French fighter in a sight that was all too familiar. The burning fighter started to lose altitude as another deadly hail of bullets ripped through the fighter.

"Aigle Deux, come in," LeBeau called, knowing that it was futile. The plane had started a dive that no living pilot would have let it enter.

"Gauthier, can you hear me?" he cried again, watching as the German fighter fired more bullets into the dying fighter. There was no answer from the bullet-riddled plane as it started to spiral, continuing its screaming dive toward the ground below.

"Gauthier, get out of there!" LeBeau yelled, hoping against hope that he would see a white parachute emerge, standing out starkly against the blue of the sky. But there was nothing.

Against his will, LeBeau found his eyes following the descent of the plane. He knew that he should be firing his guns at the German fighter, now finally within range, but he couldn't peel his eyes away from the trail of smoke and flames that followed his friend's fighter. "Mon Dieu," LeBeau whispered, "ayez pitié sur son âme."

He forced his eyes away from the doomed fighter, swinging his plane around to zero his guns on the German fighter. The fighter was pulling away from the scene of his kill, starting to circle to take on LeBeau. But LeBeau still had the upper edge and the German fighter was in his sights.

This time he had no regard for conserving ammunition. He held the trigger, watching as a long run of ammunition found its way into the German camouflage, blowing dark holes in the pattern. He was swinging into a better firing position when he saw the French fighter impact the hills, sending up a plume of dirt and a spurt of flames.

As LeBeau re-aimed his guns, he said fiercely, "This one is for Gauthier."


	2. Muncie, Indiana

_June 2, 1940 – Muncie, Indiana_  
  
Carter sighed and looked at the crumpled envelope in his hand. He could see where it had been opened and resealed; he could only assume that it had been by censors. His best friend had crossed the border a few weeks ago to enlist in the Royal Canadian Air Force. This was the first letter that Carter had received from Dan since he had left.

Even back when they had been kids, Dan had always wanted to fly. He had dreamed of leaving the earth behind and dancing among the stars. He had longed to stretch his wings, in more than one way. He had wanted to get out of Muncie and see the world in ways that normal people never got to.

So he had tried to enlist in the American air force, but they had turned him down. They didn't think that he was big enough to handle the four- engine bombers and they had enough fighter pilots. Instead, they had assured him that there was always space for him in the army and that he could always apply for a transfer to the air corps once he was through basic training.

Dan hadn't had the patience to deal with the army's bureaucratic nonsense so he had packed his bags and crossed the Canadian border to join the Royal Canadian Air Force. Canada was at war and they weren't nearly as picky about the men that they took as aircrew. They were willing to take almost anyone who was willing to fight.

Carter smoothed the envelope on the table. Dan had been his best friend since first grade. The teacher had sat them together at a double desk and they had immediately hit it off. The two of them had done almost everything together from that point on; they were inseparable. They had broken their arms together at the age of seven, had bronchitis together when they were twelve. They went on their first dates the same night, although obviously not with one another.

Since that first day sitting together at school, it seemed as if they had been walking hand in hand. One of them hadn't taken a major step without the other following close behind. This was the first time. But there had to be first times for everything. Carter just wished that it had been something more innocent. Almost wished that Dan had just gotten married instead of going off to war.

With that thought in mind, Carter slit open the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of paper that it contained.

**Dear Andrew,** he read.

**I know that you probably heard long ago that I decided to go north and join the air force up there. I know you knew I was thinking about it, but I didn't make up my mind until the last minute. And when I went, I didn't even tell my parents. I didn't want anyone to talk me out of it. **

**We all heard months ago that they have looser restrictions up here. Well, those rumours are true. They can't afford to be as choosy because they're sending their aircrew right into combat. I don't know enough to say if it's a real problem, but you hear people whispering about a manpower shortage. It makes me regret the time I spent sitting at home and thinking about joining the RCAF. **

**You know, they're really amazing, these Canucks. Of the hundred and twenty guys in my training group, two of us are Americans (or Yanks in the slang used around here). Twenty-one are English (or Limeys). Six fellows are Australian (or Aussies) and four are New Zealanders (or Kiwis). All of the rest are Canadian. But it isn't just the ones in uniform; the civilians are great too. **

**There are four groups the same size as mine training at the base here and the town is smaller than Muncie. Not even ten thousand people are regular residents of the town, but there are almost two thousand people either working or training at the air base here. **

**Speaking of training, our drill sergeant is quite a character. He's a huge guy. He's well over six feet tall and easily weighs two-hundred-forty pounds. But that's all solid muscle! I don't think there's an ounce of fat anywhere on his body. But this guy has the unlikely handle of Leslie Hore-Belisha. He's a real stickler for discipline on the parade square, but take him out to the bar and he can drink any of us under the table. Then he'll turn around and berate you for failing to salute a superior officer, almost in the same breath. I'd say more, but I want this letter to make it through the censors intact.**

** Andrew, you have no idea how great it is to fly! It's better than we ever could have imagined, better than words can even describe. It's better than one of your mom's triple-layer chocolate fudge cakes. It's honestly that incredible. Up in the air everything just seems to fade away until you feel like you're a part of the sky. All there is to the world is you and the sky. And I haven't even officially been up yet! However, I did manage to convince one of the sergeant pilots to take me up before he shipped off to a Service Training School.**

** Anyway, Andrew, I'd love to write more, but I've got to get going. There's a party in our mess tonight. I'm not entirely sure what we're celebrating this time, but I'm sure I'll find out soon enough. Give my best to everyone and take care of yourself.**

**-- Dan**

Carter set the letter down on the table, staring at the writing that he knew as well as his own. For a moment, he could almost have convinced himself that Dan was just in the other room, waiting for him to finish correcting a school assignment. But that wasn't the case.

Carter knew that Dan was seeking some sort of approval for his choice. Maybe he was even trying to convince Carter to take the leap and join up. Carter knew that he wasn't ready to go off to war. Until Dan had gone to enlist, it had been almost possible to forget that there was a war going on because it wasn't America's war. But Dan had taken it and made it his war. And because it was Dan's war, Carter knew that it had become his war too.

He might not be ready to fight, but now it was his war too. When he read the newspaper headlines, he would have to see his best friend in them. If he wanted to talk to Dan now, he would have to write a letter and wait the weeks it took to get an answer through the censors and over the border. He couldn't just simply run down the street to knock on the door. They couldn't flash lights between their bedroom windows, as they had when they were children.

Anxious to talk with his friend, even if they couldn't do it in person, Carter moved over to his mother's neatly organized desk and dug around for some writing paper and a pen. When he had found them, he settled into the chair and started to write.

**Dear Dan, **he wrote.

**You missed the husking bee last week. It was a good harvest this year, so this year's bee was one of the best I can remember. Old Man Wichster had his fiddle restrung, so the dance afterwards was great. The music was perfectly in tune! Wendy was asking about you, she missed you as a dancing partner. She hasn't even seen you in your uniform yet, but she's already feeling the pull of the khaki.**

**As for your drill sergeant being able to drink you under the table, I'm not surprised. Do you remember your cousin Mary's wedding? I know that I only remember the first half! The two of us only had two glasses of wine and neither of us could see straight afterwards. My memory's a little fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure that you stumbled into a few tables, put one of the centerpieces on your head, and told Chris that he was the cat's meow. Then again, that was your aunt Susan's chokecherry wine, and maybe you'll do better on something else. **

**Or then again, maybe not. Remember getting into the still that Mr. French kept in the shed behind the church? I doubt it. I don't remember much of that one either.  
  
Anyway, you'll never guess what happened Monday night. Mary Jane and I were walking through the park on our way home from a bonfire at the Krill's when we saw Chris and Anne. He was down on one knee trying to propose to her. But, Chris being Chris, he couldn't find the ring. So he's fiddling furiously with his shoelaces with one hand while his other hand is frantically trying to search his pockets for the ring. But he's still trying to distract Anne so she doesn't catch on. I wanted to hide in the bushes and watch, but Mary Jane pulled me away.**

Carter's pen scratched on as he continued to fill the paper with news of Muncie and fond remembrances of the happy childhood that he and Dan had shared. It was almost possible to believe that the two were just separated for something innocent, like a summer away at camp. But at heart, Carter knew that the separation was far more definite. They would never really be a pair again.


	3. Baker Field, New Jersey

_June 2, 1940 – Baker Field, New Jersey_  
  
"Colonel, Lieutenant Hogan is reporting in as ordered," the aide told Hogan briskly.

"Send him in," Hogan directed, turning to face the door. He was fighting to conceal his anger and put on the mask of a commanding officer.

"You sent for me, sir," Matthew Hogan said, coming to stand at attention in front of his older brother.

"Lieutenant," Hogan started, "your conduct over the past few weeks has been deplorable. No other soldier in this camp has shown such utter disregard for military procedure or such disrepect for authority." His voice remained calm, but Matthew could read the anger in his brother's eyes.

Still, Matthew remained at attention, his face set. Hogan continued his speech, "Two of the past three barracks inspections have found your uniforms and kit in less than pristine condition. Unless this improves significantly in the immediate future, I will be forced to take severe disciplinary measures."

Hogan paused, letting the implications of that sink into his brother's mind. It was also a moment for him to recollect his thoughts and continue on as commanding officer. "While your instructors continue to file reports that you are among the best pilots in your class, they also tell me that you are the most reckless pilot they have ever seen. From this point on, you will obey their orders to the letter. There will be no more attempts at high-speed maneouvers or acrobatics unless they are a part of the course and you have been explicitly ordered to do so."

Hogan demanded, "Well, what do you have to say for yourself, lieutenant?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Matthew replied formally.

"Pilots far more experienced than you are have died because they got careless or because they were trying to show off," Hogan replied, his voice rising as his anger bubbled closer to the surface. "Sorry doesn't bring you back from something like that."

Hogan settled into a stony silence. He had seen training accidents kill and cripple far too many bright young pilots. As the base's commanding officer, he had watched the planes go up, and he had watched the young pilots test their limits, both of the planes and of themselves.

He remembered back to when he had first joined up as a pilot, transferring into the air corps almost immediately after graduating from West Point. The planes back then hadn't been nearly as fast, but they had been just as dangerous. Hogan himself had come close to accidents on more than one occasion, but his luck had held. That was the only reason that he was still alive, blind luck.

Still, under the surface, Hogan knew that, given the chance, he too would be testing the limits of the new fighters, pushing them as far and as fast as they could go. But he hadn't been behind the controls of a plane in over three months. Bogged down in administrative details, he longed for the wide open freedom of the air.

Matthew knew how much Hogan itched to be flying and how much his older brother hated being a desk jockey. But more than anything else, Matthew knew that Hogan identified with his pilots. Unlike the other, older commanders, there were fewer than ten years in age difference between him and the men he commanded. Because the two knew each other, and knew themselves, the lecture was going nowhere. Both knew it.

Matthew wasn't intimidated by Hogan's rank and Hogan had been in the same place as Matthew not all that long ago. Still, Hogan felt obligated to keep trying, both as Matthew's commanding officer and as his older brother and self-appointed guardian.

"Lieutenant," Hogan began, "whether you believe it or not, these leaves mean something." He held his collar out slightly, the insignia glittering in the light. "And it took hard work to get them. Sure, I'm a pilot, but I'm also a soldier. That means I have to do my duty. You have to learn that for yourself, Matthew. I just hope that you learn it before it's too late."

Once again, he settled into silence. Matthew watched, looking at a rarely shown side of his brother. It was always slightly unsettling to realise that beneath the persona that Hogan always showed, there was something different. It was almost as though there were two different people residing within the same body.

"Am I dismissed, colonel?" Matthew asked stiffly.

"Yes, lieutenant, you're dismissed," Hogan answered.

Matthew crisply saluted, waiting for Hogan's nod before lowering his hand and pivoting to leave. Hogan turned to face the window, staring out at the night sky. The base was quiet and a full moon shone softly from the black velvet sky. It was almost possible to forget that an ocean away, nations were locked in a deathly struggle.

"Lieutenant," Hogan called, "if you happen to see my brother on your way back to the barracks, send him in here. We haven't had a good chat in a while."

Matthew paused at the door, turning to respond, "Yes, sir, colonel. Would you like me to tell him to check his bar at the door?"

"Yes, lieutenant," Hogan answered with a smile, turning to again face his brother. "I think I'd better get my leaves in some water; they're starting to look a little wrinkled."

Matthew returned to the desk, only this time, he took a seat and tossed his hat on the filing cabinet. "So," he drawled, "you got anything to eat in this joint? The mess food is worse than Aunt Karen's cooking."


	4. Detroit, Michigan

_June 2, 1940 -- Detroit, Michigan_

__

"Are you actually planning to hit the ball this time, or are you just go stand there and swing?" Kinch stoically ignored the teasing from his friends as he carefully lined up with the pitcher. 

"Hey, Ivan, you gonna need Susan to get over here and pitch for you?"

"I don't think he'd even be able to hit one of her pitches!"

"Hey, Billy," one of Kinch's teammates called, "just throw the ball, will ya?" He was standing on third and was anxious to get a chance to try for the run.

"Come on, Kinch," the player on second yelled, "we're counting on you."

Billy, the pitcher, let loose with a high fastball. Kinch was caught off- balance, but he swung at it anyway. He managed to connect with the ball, but it was a weak hit and an obvious foul. A chorus of disappointed groans immediately echoed from Kinch's bench. Excited cheers rang out from the players in the field.

"Looks like we'll have our money this week!" a towheaded kid in the outfield shouted happily. It was tradition that the members of the losing team had to shell out the money to buy cokes for the members of the winning team.

The same group of boys had been gathering on Sunday afternoons to play ball since elementary school. The teams were never the same; they were picked more or less at random. And if you missed a pitch or fumbled a catch, your own team was just as likely to give you a hard time about it as the opposing team. But it was all in good fun. It always had been.

"Hey," the player on third protested, "at least he managed to hit the ball that time."

"Yeah, well, I need my money this week. I promised I'd take Danielle to the movies."

"So, you finally asked her, Tommy," someone else retorted. "I thought that you were never going to work up the nerve."

"Hey, you also thought that Kinch would never manage to hit the ball," the shortstop quipped. "Doesn't bode so well for our team."

"Are we going to play ball here or are we going to bug Tommy about his love life?"

"I think we've already exhausted that subject!"

"I wouldn't count on having your money this week, boys," the player on first challenged. "We're only three runs down. Watch, we'll be running laps around you before this is over."

"Mind you, they'll be very short laps, won't they?" someone laughed.

Billy wound up for the pitch, knowing that the bases were loaded and the count was full. It was down to just this one pitch. If he could manage to strike Kinch out, he would be the the hero of the day, or at least as close to the hero as any of them would get. If Kinch managed to hit the pitch, well, then he would be the object of endless ribbing until next week. It was funny how it always seemed to turn out like that.

The pitch came in straight and fast, heading right toward Kinch. Kinch shifted his weight forward and began to swing the wooden bat forward. As the end came around, the ball connected solidly with the bat. The ball sailed up and far into right field. Kinch instantly dropped the bat and sprinted off toward first base.

Knowing that the game would be almost over, some of the girls had dropped by to watch the tail end. Tommy, having drawn the short straw and being stuck in the outfield, turned to wave to Danielle and the other girls, never dreaming that the ball would be headed toward him. He didn't see the white sphere headed toward him until it connected solidly with his head.

His hands flew to his head as his teammates screamed for him to pick up the ball. The first of the three runners that had been on base crossed home plate; the other two were hot on his heels and Kinch wasn't far behind.

Tommy blinked a few times in confusion as the next runner passed over the plate. "Pick up the ball, Tommy!"

Dazedly, Tommy started franticly searching the ground for the ball. He was having trouble finding it.

"Let's go, Kinch!"

"Tommy, the ball is three feet from your face! Pick it up and throw it home!"

The screaming wasn't helping the confused Tommy get his bearings. The third runner crossed home, evening the score. But there was still hope, if they could get Kinch out, they would have to go into extra innings.

"Go left, Tommy!"

"No, your other left!"

"He's never going to find it. Keep running, Ivan!"

Tommy finally found the ball and hurled it toward home plate. His aim was off, but the catcher stretched to reach it. Unfortunately, his foot slipped off the plate and Kinch slid in beneath his outstretched arm.

"Safe!" everyone called. The winning team was jubilant, the losing team momentarily dejected.

"Looks like you won't be hanging on to your money after all," someone taunted.

"Way to go, Tommy," Billy groaned, thankful that another scapegoat had been found.

"Yeah, nice catch!"

Tommy rubbed the sore spot on his head. "Well, I don't see you running laps around us," he retorted.

"That's because you were too busy flirting with the girls!"

The girls walked onto the field, pairing off with members of the winning team. Danielle walked right past Tommy, pausing to grin at him, and directly to Kinch. Kinch draped his arm over her shoulder and led her off down the road. He turned to wink over his shoulder at Tommy.

"Hey, Tommy," someone quipped, "I thought that Danielle was yours."

"I'll be yours, Tommy," Billy said, batting his sandy eyelashes at Tommy.

"No thanks!"

Billy rushed down the field to tackle Tommy. The two men took down a couple of others as they wrestled in the dust of the old ball diamond.

"I'm getting mighty thirsty," someone commented. "I sure do wish that I had a coke."

"Put a sock in it already."

"I'd much rather put a coke in it!"

Laughter echoed down the street.


	5. Lady Luck, off the coast of Dunkirk

_June 2, 1940 – Lady Luck, off the coast of Dunkirk_  
  
"Keep to the left of the pilings, Jack."

"Right. Do you have the blankets ready?" Jack asked, carefully navigating the submerged obstacles.

Newkirk nodded, his eyes glued on the lines of waiting men. "Okay, boys," Newkirk yelled, "we can take sixty off. But we don't have room for guns or packs." The men were standing shoulder-high in the water, waiting patiently for their turn to get in a boat.

The men closest to the boat passed Newkirk's announcement on to those who were too far away to hear for themselves. Jack and Newkirk reached out helping hands to aide the soldiers in boarding the small boat.

"Well, boys, let's get moving!"

Not for the first time, Newkirk was thankful for Jack. Jack's father had been a navy captain during the last war and all of his children had grown up as at home on the water as on solid ground. Jack had dated Newkirk's sister back when the they were all still teenagers. Newkirk and Jack had struck up a friendship that had lasted far longer than the relationship between Jack and Mavis. Newkirk had shared his magic tricks with Jack; Jack had shared his love of sailing with Newkirk.

The soldiers kept coming toward the boat in a neat queue. The ones already aboard reached out their hands to help their fellows scale the slick sides of the boat and clamber aboard. They continued to load men onto the small boat until it was floating low in the water and was in danger of capsizing.

"Sorry," Newkirk called out to the waiting column of men, "but we can't take any more."

Once again, the men close to the boat passed the word on back to those still standing closer to the shore. The soldiers still remaining helped to push the boat away from shore. Perhaps the next boat would be the one that finally came to take them back to England.

Newkirk began distributing the few blankets they had and carefully rationing the single jar of rum they had remaining aboard. Jack started the motor and the boat began to pull slowly away from the columns of waiting men. Above them, in the sky, RAF planes flew over the Channel from England, helping protect the soldiers from the might of the Luftwaffe.

"Hey, Peter, come here," Jack said, motioning for his friend to join him at the wheel. "Do you think we can go for another load, or do we have to stop?" he asked once Newkirk had come to stand beside him.

"There are still so many there," Newkirk commented. He paused for a moment, stopping to watch as a plane crashed into the hills beyond the horizon. The pilot had bailed successfully; he floated down on his white parachute. "We have to keep going," he said firmly.

Jack nodded and started to carefully set a course toward the nearest large ship. The water was too shallow for the larger ships to come close enough to the beaches; the smaller boats had been acting as ferries. They could get more men off that way.

As the two looked around at the crowded deck, the two felt guilty for not squeezing one more soldier aboard. Even though the pair had been sailing back and forth for days, there were still so many soldiers to be taken off and so little time to do it. There could be an attack at any time and the entire operation would have to come to an end.

A man approached the pair. They could tell from his bedraggled battledress that he was an officer. He crisply saluted them. "I'd like to thank you both for taking my men off. If there's anything that I can do to assist you chaps, don't hesitate to ask."

Before they had a chance to answer, two German planes buzzed low overhead, bullets striking the water just behind the boat. "Where'd we put the guns?" Jack asked determinedly.

"Want to bag a Jerry, do you, Jack?" Newkirk quipped. "You know that it doesn't count unless you're both in an airplane."

"So funny," Jack retorted, rolling his eyes. "Or do I have to pull rank on you?"

"What are you going to do? Make me swab the deck and run up the Jolly Roger?"

Jack turned apologetically to the puzzled officer. "Meet Peter Newkirk of the Royal Air Force."

"Oh, he's RAF," the officer said, nodding seriously with sudden understanding.

"You're RAF too!" Peter protested, soundly smacking the back of his friend's head.

"You two chaps aren't AWL, are you?" the officer asked as the German planes began another run in toward them.

Jack turned sharply aside, trying to get out of their line of fire. The maneouver worked and the bullets fell harmlessly in the water alongside the boat.

"We are officially on leave in London for the next twelve hours," Jack responded calmly.

The officer looked relieved. "Jolly good."

The pair of fighters turned to again cross paths with the small boat. But this time they anticipated Jack's sudden turn away from them. "Hit the deck!"

But there were too many people aboard and the men lay in tangled masses wherever there was room for them. As the bullets found their marks, moans and screams came from the wounded and the dying.

Whether their lust for blood had been satisfied, or they had simply run out of ammunition, the fighters didn't return again. Puddles of blood pooled to stain the decks as the untouched lay together with the dead.

"Ryan, please wake up. Please, Ryan, we're almost home again. It's only a little further," a plaintive pleading rose above the moans and screams. A young private was trying desperately to wake his friend. A pool of dark blood had already collected beneath the motionless body. "Please, Ryan, wake up."

Blood trickled down the young man's own face as he began to sob unabashedly. "You have to make it. Ryan, you promised that we'd both be okay. Please, Ryan."

A corporal who couldn't have been much older than the private came and took the sobbing boy in his arms. He didn't utter soothing false promises; he just let the boy cry on his shoulder.

"We're almost home." It was both a saving grace and a curse. They were so close to home, but there was no guarantee that they would ever reach it.

Jack and Newkirk looked on helplessly as men died before the eyes of their friends. The soldiers had been through harsh combat and had waited for days to be rescued from their pursuers. But now, when they were so close to being home again, they found that once again they had no safe haven.


End file.
